Leather
by teabizarre
Summary: Jasper tries to flee his dishonourable discharge and his desires, but out in the desert is something even more frightening than his own personal demons. AU. All slash. Human.
1. Chapter 1

Leather

**A/N: AU, all slash, human. Jasper tries to flee his dishonourable discharge and his desires, but out in the desert is something even more frightening than his own personal demons.**

1.

Jasper only kicked his car once, though in the red haze of his frustration he wished he could pulverize it completely, but he'd long since given up on reacting to his stronger emotions: rage, lust, misery, and oh, hadn't there been plenty of that lately. But he forced himself to remain stoic, to breathe, to calm down, soothing himself with the prospect of eventual serenity, if only he subdued himself long enough. He was a Catholic, after all; he was born for flagellation. You could say he was its prodigy.

But that did not fix his car. Mechanical skill he had; a new engine he did not. Especially not out here.

He wasn't in the middle of nowhere, but he could see it from here—on the flat expanse of sizzling dirt, somewhere between the warbling strips of mirage that hung on every goddamn horizon, was a shit depot he'd passed a couple of miles back. At the time he'd been glad to leave it behind, thinking that he was glad he wasn't _there_—but it was having the last laugh.

It wheeled him in by virtue of being the only option other than desiccating in the heat, or waiting for traffic to pick up in the next century or so.

He grabbed the bag that was, along with his car and the clothes he wore, his only possessions, and began a trudging march that took him the better part of an hour. His first indication that he was actually getting closer was a scattering of beer bottles around an ashy firepit, and he guessed he'd just passed what the locals did for R&R. A little while later he turned off onto the dirt track that floated heavy sheets of dust between three neglected buildings: a bar, a workshop and convenience store about the size of his thumb, give or take.

Seeing as the word "Dale" featured in two of the establishments' names, Jasper assumed that either he'd just entered the braying folds of Dale, Arizona, or he'd come across a Mormon operation in the middle of the desert. At that point both seemed more or less equally likely, and it was with reserve that he headed for the workshop.

_Dale Automobiles_, its sign said, but the door was locked and there was no one in sight. The only thing he could see through the greasy window was what looked like an old Chevrolet with short, deep gashes in its side. The paint had peeled away completely around the scratches, so Jasper could see that it actually broke the frame in some places.

Wondering vaguely what would make marks like that, Jasper backed away, thinking he'd go around back, and it was only then that he noticed his little audience.

'Can I help you with something?' The speaker was a tall, pale-haired man with wisps of worry around his eyes, which were blue and as dark as the sky was bright. He wore jeans under a dark button-down shirt. Behind him stood a woman, probably no older than eighteen, with a whip of long, dark brown hair and eyes to match. The man seemed pleasant enough, though defensive; the girl glared at Jasper mistrustfully.

'My car broke down,' Jasper explained, trying to sound as unharmful as possible, 'and I was looking for a mechanic-'

'There are no mechanics here,' the man interrupted. His Southern accent was pronounced. The words were a faint, attractive drawl; almost a murmur.

'Are there any close-?'

'No. The mechanic...he left last week.' The man frowned. He looked exhausted. Next to him, the woman stirred, shooting her companion a look that he didn't see. Jasper had an instinct when it came to feelings, so though he knew it was fear he'd seen flashing in her wide eyes, he tried to dismiss it. What could be scary about a mechanic leaving a hell-hole? Hopefully not the common sense evident in the decision.

'I don't suppose there's any way you can give me a lift somewhere?' he asked, trying to control the irritation in his tone.

The blonde man's lips tightened, and he flashed the glaring orb of sun a worried look. It was almost sunset. The white-hot globe looked like it was melting into the bizarre lines the mirages made.

'It's almost night time,' he remarked.

'It's too close,' the woman said, speaking for the first time. She had a soft, staccato voice. There was no mistaking the caution in it.

The man agreed—he nodded, still frowning, then looked back at Jasper.

'I can take you tomorrow, first thing. There isn't a hotel, but you're more than welcome to share our house. But,' he added—he spoke slowly, picking his words carefully, and they plucked the air in his accent- 'I can't guarantee your safety. There's something...' he trailed off, exchanging a look with the woman.

'If he stays out by his car...' she suggested.

He shook his head. 'Worse.'

'Look, I don't know if you think you're being funny,' Jasper said, annoyed. 'Do you at least have a phone I can use?'

'There's a payphone in the bar,' the woman said. Her eyes widened innocently, and the beginning of a blush settled in her cheeks.

Jasper didn't know what game they were playing and he wasn't in the mood to stay around and find out. So he said, 'Thank you,' sarcastically, hitched his bag over his shoulder and strode to the run-down bar. He'd nearly reached its door when he heard the click.

Jasper had spent a considerable amount of his youth on a ranch and, until recently, four years in the army; he knew what a gun sounded like. He turned around and, sure enough, the tall guy had a revolver pointed square at his chest. His arm was a long, strong, stark line against the cheerless backdrop of the dirty workshop. He had the sleeves of his shirt pushed up to his elbows. His biceps were sculpted.

'I'm sorry,' the man said. He sounded remorseful, and there was obvious regret in his eyes. 'But I can't let you do that. It's dangerous enough already. If more people come...' His voice trailed off ominously. He gave the woman at his side a quick glance. Her lips were set.

'Drop the bag,' she ordered. There was a ring of authority there Jasper hadn't expected.

Jasper slid it off his shoulder, held out his arm, and chucked it lightly away from him, then automatically lifted his arms above his head. 'Look, take whatever you want, okay? I just want to get out of here. I have no-'

'Face down on the dirt,' the girl interrupted him. 'Do as you're told, soldier,' she added, contemptuously, Jasper thought.

'Is it that obvious?' he remarked, getting on his knees with his arms still raised, but she didn't reply; instead, she went around him, walking in a wide arc; he'd just begun to lower his torso to the ground when he smelled her behind him—she smelled like strawberries and cream.

She was too close to him for Jasper to have to worry about the man actually shooting at him. Jasper dropped suddenly and rolled, catching the woman by surprise and kicking her feet out from under her. She toppled over him, her hair flying, the Taser she'd been holding skittering away uselessly in the direction of the highway. Jasper had just enough time to think, _Gotcha_ and register another scent—it smelled like cotton and leather—when the pain hit him. It stabbed him in the side of his head, and blackness washed over his vision.

* * *

><p>It was dark when Jasper woke up. Pain shot through his head, his neck, his shoulders. Flinching, he tried to roll onto his side—but a big hand shot out, forcing him back.<p>

'Please, stay still,' a calm, soothing voice ordered. 'You'll only hurt yourself.'

The dim room brightened—the man who'd pointed the gun at him had lit a stub of candle on the table next to Jasper's bed. This table was littered with an ominous assortment of items—tape, scissors, a scalpel, a needle, a saline drip globbing in the flickering light, bandages, what looked like fishing tackle, squares of gauze.

When he saw what Jasper was looking at, he said, 'I'm sorry about your head.' He indicated vaguely. Jasper could feel the tell-tale tight, stinging pull of stitches and wondered how badly he'd been busted up. It felt like they covered most of his forehead.

'What do you want?' he demanded of the stranger, trying to keep his voice calm and firm, but it came out cracking and faint, and no wonder—the room was stifling. He felt sweat trickle down the hollow of his arm.

'Thirsty?' the man guessed, half-rising to reach a bottle of water standing on a nearby shelf. He opened it and, without waiting for a response, pushed a hand under Jasper's head, put the bottle to his lips, and tipped slightly. Jasper didn't have time to argue, nor did he want to. He gulped greedily, emptying the bottle, before he collapsed back onto the springy mattress. His head was thumping painfully around the stitches, but he tried his best to concentrate.

'How do you feel?' the man asked. He sounded concerned.

'What do you want?' Jasper repeated, opening his eyes again. He tugged at whatever held his arms together behind his back—tape, he guessed. His feet were tied together, too. He wiggled, but the man put his hand on Jasper's arm to stop him.

'You won't get out,' he told Jasper, sounding unhappy. 'I was in the army, too. So please, for your own-'

'_What the fuck do you want?_' Jasper shouted, his headache pitching painfully.

The man didn't so much as flinch, but his eyes pinched around the corners. He stared at Jasper; the pulsing candlelight dropped his clear eyes into shadow. Then he sunk his head into his right hand, pulling his fingers through his already tousled hair.

'I'm sorry about what happened here,' was his only reaction. He straightening from the hard-backed chair he'd been sitting on and sighed heavily. 'Please, believe me when I say that it is for your own good. Tomorrow I'll drop you off at a town. Try to keep still,' he added, then he opened the door and disappeared into darkness. He locked it behind him.

Jasper lay as still as he could, listening to the man's footsteps recede. When he was sure the stranger had gone, he rolled onto his side, yanking at his wrists, but the tape didn't budge. With difficulty he shimmied himself into a sitting position. His shadow jumped around on the wall behind him like a monster, but he paid it—and the fleeting flash of memories, memories of nightmares, no attention. If he didn't act fast, _this_ would become the nightmare. There was no way he'd be released. He knew what his captors looked like, knew where to find him. The blonde had to be lying.

And yet, even as Jasper struggled to reach the glinting blade of the scalpel, he felt like he'd gotten something wrong. The man didn't look like a liar. What he looked like was compassionate, remorseful, yearning. Jasper didn't understand it, and he figured he had to be wrong; no compassionate man would hold someone up with a-

The door burst open, and Jasper's already fragile sense of balance teetered. He knocked the table sideways when he fell, aware of things clattering noisily and heavy, urgent footsteps on the concrete floor. The candle spluttered and went out. In the sudden darkness, the smell of sweat and leather was violent in its proximity.

Jasper was yanked roughly to his feet. Though tall, he only reached the stranger's chin. His mouth was open and in the silence their warm, panting breaths felt both brash and intimate. The pit of his stomach fluttered.

Jasper could tell that the man was angry—like cracks on fine china, breaking determinedly through the calm façade. Wordlessly he pushed Jasper back onto the bed, shoving him down when Jasper struggled.

'Get the fuck-'

Jasper tried to bite him, but the man jerked back. The fist that connected with Jasper's jaw split his bottom lip and set the headache thundering anew. The dark room hushed and the headache faltered, but then he felt cool fingers along his face, probing. He groaned.

'Jasper? Can you hear me? Jasper!'

His eyelids fluttered. The candle was back in its spot, casting its yellow glow. The man's shadow was all rounded, graceful edges on the wall. Jasper tried to jerk away from it, momentarily thinking that he was back _there_—but then the man's face swam into his field of vision. His hair was golden in this light.

'Can you hear me? Jasper?'

'Why—why are you doing...' Jasper tried for some aggression, but he felt drained and empty, like the last two weeks and the four years before them—and _him_, who he wasn't allowed to think of, let alone remember—had come crashing down on him, burying him.

The stranger hovered over him, his eyes fine-combing Jasper's face. One hand rested thoughtfully on Jasper's chest, above his heart. His lips parted slightly, as though he wanted to reply. His breath was warm. Jasper could feel it in his neck, and the hairs at the nape prickled.

'I'm sorry I hit you,' the stranger said. Lightly he lifted his hand to touch what Jasper assumed was a fresh bruise. His fingertips lingered, sliding down the line of his jaw and briefly touching his lip, which stung.

'Please,' Jasper whispered roughly, and for a moment he wasn't sure exactly what he was asking for.

The stranger's Adam's apple bounced visibly. He hesitated before gingerly circling his arms around Jasper's body, flipping him over. Jasper's spine felt like butter; a tremble went down his back and he cringed, but all the strength had gone out of him. He couldn't fight. It would be just like—but no, he wasn't allowed to remember-

The stranger's arms were hard, the muscles flexing under the skin pronounced. With one hand he undid Jasper leather belt; he unbuttoned his jeans, and quickly jerked them down, exposing the soft skin of his lower-back.

'This will help for the pain,' he said. Jasper felt him pinching his flesh together, and then a short, sharp jab. Immediately a searing numbness began to spread up his spine and along his shoulders. He groaned again, involuntarily.

'Rest, Jasper,' the man whispered. Jasper felt him brush away the hair on his forehead, and then the light snuffed out again.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: I haven't written slash in a while, and I wanted an excuse to put those two gorgeous men into cowboy clothes anyway, so here we are :) Please review and let me know what you think. **

**There will be femmeslash in this fic in the future, so hold onto your horses :P**

**Disclaimer: Jasper Whitlock, the estimable Dr Carlisle Cullen and slightly OOC Bella Swan (for which there is a reason, ladies and gents) all belong to Stephenie Meyer -applause-. **

**If you enjoyed this, you might read my other fic, 'The Ghost and the Angel', crossover, slash, DracoxCarlisle. **

**Thanks for reading!**

**UPDATE: I only made minor alterations to this chapter, to make it more readable. Please review!**


	2. Chapter 2

2.

Jasper didn't immediately recognize the long, low moan as coming from his own mouth, but when his muddled brain managed to pour some sense through the cracks of his throbbing headache, he forced his lips shut and blinked his eyes, trying to see. The room was dark, but Jasper could make out fuzzy light that may have been an indication of dawn dredging through the curtains on the opposite wall, and a sliver of it inking in under the door.

Slowly, as the tips of the headache eased enough for him to think, he began to remember what had happened, and panic settled in his stomach. He tried to move, but he could just as well have been cast in cement for all the progress he was making. He _did_ manage to crane his neck around. His suspicions were confirmed. The table that had held the medical supplies, including the scalpel, had been cleared. The only thing on it was the candle, hardened in its tin holder. The chair the man had occupied the night before was pushed neatly in under the table, like a solitary meal was about to be served.

Still, Jasper was an ex-soldier, and his instinct for survival didn't let him off that easily, though his throbbing head wanted nothing more than to go back to sleep. He wiggled, again testing the strength of his bonds—and to his surprise, found that there was a little more room than before. His arms stabbed with pain and his wrists rubbed raw, but after what felt like a lifetime—the light had brightened perceptibly—he managed to get a hand out. Blood flooded his fingers painfully, and he allowed himself a moment to calm his breathing. He had to stay focused; he had work to do. Getting his bonds off was only the first step.

He was about to begin working his feet free when he heard something, faint but distinct to him, riled up as his senses were with adrenaline.

He held his breath, his ears straining. Yes—there were footsteps outside, swiftly approaching. Quickly and silently he dropped back onto the bed, his arms stinging as he tucked them back in behind his body, and rolled so that he was lying at an angle. He closed his eyes, burying his face in the thin pillow that smelled of sweat and surgical alcohol, and waited, measuring the rise and fall of his chest with slow, deep, rhythmical breaths. It was an art he was more adept at than he would have liked to admit. But until he had his feet free he was at an disadvantage, and he had to wait for something to change before he could strike.

The door cracked open, and the now-familiar gait stepped quietly into the room. The stranger shut the door behind him, but didn't lock it. There he hesitated. Jasper ruthlessly shut down the fettering worry that his escape was somehow obvious and waited, and soon the man stole deeper into the room.

His touch wasn't unexpected, but it still sent a snap of shock through Jasper. Mild fingertips stroked Jasper's hair away and probed his face with the deep, calm intensity of purpose. There was no hesitation in the stranger's movements now. Jasper guessed that this was his calling, and wondered if he was a doctor. But what would a doctor be doing out _here_? And why would he kidnap anyone? Maybe there was some kind of drug operation going on. Jasper was faintly annoyed with himself that this hadn't occurred to him sooner.

The fingertips disappeared. Jasper could hear a drawer opening, followed by a faint pop before the smell of fresh cleaning alcohol hit the air. The man dabbed lightly at Jasper's stitches. They stung, but not as much as before.

The dabbing stopped and Jasper heard the drawer slide close. Should he tackle the stranger now? Was he carrying a weapon? Or should Jasper wait until he was entirely free before launching an assault?

Jasper only had a moment to consider it. His captor was both bigger and heavier than he was, and, if what he'd said about being in the military was true, then he was also trained, which heavily skewed the odds against Jasper's attempt. On the other hand, what if he managed to get out of his bonds and there was no way out of the room? Jasper could try to ambush his captor when the man returned, but the way the door was positioned the stranger would immediately see that Jasper was no longer tied up on the bed.

No, Jasper decided, he'd better do it now. It was almost daytime. If they were going to kill him (and Jasper thought that was the most likely scenario, the most logical conclusion), they would do it soon. Most people liked having the dark to nest in when they committed their atrocities.

He tensed, getting ready to pitch himself off the bed, when more footsteps—lighter, quicker, but also more clumsy—sounded, followed by the dark haired woman's voice.

'Is he still out?' she whispered from the doorway. Jasper hesitated. From what he'd seen the day before—he remembered her cautious, guarded eyes—he wouldn't put it past her to have the Taser on her all the time. And if he only had the one chance...

'Yes. I just cleaned his stitches. I'll take him when the sun's up,' the stranger added, grave and resigned. Two emotions flickered in Jasper's midriff. One: the mild triumph that came with being right. The second wasn't as easily defined. It was somewhere between fear and horror and hope.

'Carlisle...' the woman said, but she spoke carefully and not without kindness. 'Are you sure? He's a soldier. Maybe-'

'No,' Carlisle snapped, but immediately apologized. 'I'm sorry, Bella. I just—we can't.'

'We've been alone a long time,' she noted. Jasper could feel her eyes on him.

'We agreed,' Carlisle countered. 'This stays with us. If we-'

Apparently this was a favourite argument, because she interrupted him. '-bring others in, they win. I _know_. But what if they already know about him? What if they go after him?'

There were a few beats of silence before Carlisle answered. When he spoke, he sounded reluctant, and it did odd and not altogether unpleasant things to his Southern accent.

'Unlikely. His car is hidden, and if they were in the area, we would have known about it by now. No, I think the best course of action is the one we've already decided on.'

Jasper didn't know whether Bella responded or not, but her footsteps and the swish of her clothes was followed immediately by the man—Carlisle—departing. Jasper listened for the sound of the key turning but to his utter surprise, it didn't. Jasper thought it was more distraction and confusion than stupidity, but if it made his escape any easier, what did it matter?

Only, he had this small, nagging feeling that it _did_ matter.

He sawed the thick, sticky bands of tape from his ankles using the rusting bed frame, then tore away the rest with his hands. After rubbing some life into his feet, he pulled his boots on. They were noisier than bare feet but, if he had to kick his way out, he'd rather be wearing them than not.

He listened at the door till the count of thirty, then eased it open. He was in a small, badly-lit bathroom: it had one wash basin, a toilet and a shower. The tiles were cracked and the lighting derelict, but it was immaculately clean—the smell of bleach was overwhelming. He had to take a few breaths before he moved on. There was only one window, and another door, painted the same blue-white as the walls.

His heart beating meticulously, Jasper paused at this door, listening again. He tried the handle. It turned easily, and he pushed it open, peering with one eye through the narrow gap. All he could see was a slice of concrete floor and peeling walls. There was no one in sight.

The room he slid into was slightly bigger than the one he'd been holed up in. It was obvious that he was in a basement. There were windows, but, like in the bed and bathroom, they were high up the wall and grated. At the point farthest away from him was a short, narrow stairway; to his left and right were orderly stacks of boxes.

He briefly considered searching the boxes for weapons, but he didn't have enough time. Light was striking the windows at a higher and brighter angle. In the slant of the sun's rays, dust motes drifted lazily on the hot air. His breath disturbed those closest to him. They whorled around an invisible point of impact.

_Now what, Whitlock?_ In his head, the words sounded like those of his First Lieutenant. It had been months since he'd seen Emmett, but his voice still rung, gruff and cocky, like he'd never left the military. It was strange to think that it was Emmett who had gotten him sacked. Stranger still that Emmett-

Jasper no longer had to consciously command his emotions; they locked down and his mind cleared around the task he had to accomplish. There was only one way out of this basement, and that was up those stairs. It was fair to assume that Carlisle and his sidekick were somewhere above. He knew they had weapons, and while they wouldn't expect him to come charging out-

He heard the shuffle and slunk in behind the tallest boxes before his mind had fully comprehended the consequences of the sound. A second later, a pair of boots tapped down the stairs. Carlisle walked soberly, his back erect. Jasper only had time enough to see that he was carrying a tray before he had to duck down. Carlisle walked right past him, and Jasper heard the first door open.

His legs worked automatically. This was, in actuality, perfect. He'd immobilize Carlisle first, then he'd take care of Bella. He wouldn't hurt them unless they put up too much of a fight—but then again, they were the ones who'd attacked _him, _and he'd only wanted a ride!

He skimmed through the bathroom. He could see Carlisle ahead of him, just heading into the bedroom. He shut the bathroom door behind him, and before Carlisle could even react to the vacant room, Jasper had shut that door, too. Carlisle was still holding the tray. Jasper snatched forward before he could turn around.

The revolver, visible where it jutted through the fabric of Carlisle's shirt, jammed into the back of his jeans, was not hard to take. Jasper grappled it from him, landing a practised kick into Carlisle's solar plexus. He sprawled back. His head hit the edge of the table with a small snap, and a line of blood—brighter than Jasper would have imagined—opened up on his temple. Carlisle's eyelids fluttered. For the first time Jasper noticed the wedges of sleeplessness under his eyes.

His hands rose, as steady as his feet, pointing the revolver carefully at his captor.

'Please,' Carlisle said. He sounded breathless but calm, collected. 'Bella is at the workshop. If you go out the back way, she won't see you. Please don't harm her, Jasper,'

'How do you know my name?' Jasper demanded. His voice was so stiff it was almost formal. It was an interrogation technique. It asserted control and diminished emotion.

A frown sprouted between Carlisle's eyebrows, but he answered readily enough. 'Your license was in your wallet.'

Of course. _Duh, dumb ass_. Emmett's voice again. Jeering.

'Why did you attack me? What did you want? What's going on out here?'

It almost looked like Carlisle was about to smile, but his eyes saddened and he dropped them to his hand. It, too, was bleeding. Carlisle inspected it carefully. His voice slipped into a monotone when he replied.

'You can take my car. It's behind the house. The keys are in the kitchen. It's gassed up so you should-'

'Is Bella your wife?' Another calm, measured question.

Carlisle's lips almost shifted into a grimace, but he held the neutrality in check. 'No.'

'Are there others?'

'Just us.'

'How many?'

'Two. Just Bella and I,' he repeated, momentarily shifting his gaze to Jasper's face before returning it to his hand.

Jasper chewed on that, his eyes checking the door. Everything in him wanted to believe that Carlisle was being honest, but Jasper knew people too well. If you trusted them just a little, they'd tear out your heart, rip it to shreds and stomp on the pieces. He couldn't afford to make such a mistake now, despite the man's deep, clear blue eyes. He'd had him tied up on a bed, for God's sake.

'Get on the bed,' Jasper commanded. Carlisle didn't hesitate. He rose easily, and shifted onto the bed, all the while keeping his face vacant and his eyes down. Another technique, and something about it picked at Jasper like picking at a barely-healed scab.

_Look at me_. He wanted to say this, but of course he couldn't. He shouldn't...

'Look at me.'

The terse command sat in the air for a second before Carlisle complied. As he gazed at Jasper, a lock of hair fell from where it had been smoothed back from his face. The blood was still seeping from the gash on Carlisle's temple and Jasper's stomach turned. It was the way he'd felt, as a child, for accidentally killing something—a butterfly grasped too tightly, or failing to nurse a bird back to health. It was part despair, part loneliness, part frustration. In a way he'd always thought he was damned. He tried so hard, but death just seemed to come easiest to him.

'Take off your shirt. Now,' he added, when Carlisle hesitated, frowning slightly, like this was no more complicated than working out an equation.

Carlisle unbuttoned the lumber shirt he was wearing, his fingers moving deftly on the plastic buttons, each pop revealing more of the pearly, sculpted lines of his chest. He tugged his arms free. The muscles bunched together under the smooth, pale skin. Jasper could tell that, despite the cool eyes, this had perturbed Carlisle's sense of calm. His Adam's apple bounced nervously.

'Use it to stop the blood,' Jasper said, relaxing his shoulders just a little. 'It's still bleeding.'

Chagrin flashed in Carlisle's cheeks but he obeyed, carefully folding the shirt into a compress and holding it up to his head. The edges of his lips flinched when it made contact, and Jasper felt that twist again—shame, regret, even a little fear.

'On your stomach. If you move, I'll shoot you. If you try to run, I'll shoot you. If you make a sound, I'll shoot you. Do you understand?'

Carlisle's lips were set, the nod tight. He avoided Jasper's eyes again.

'Turn around.'

Jasper waited until Carlisle had flipped over. Making sure to keep the cold nozzle of the gun between Carlisle's shoulder blades, he shifted forward to press one knee into the small of Carlisle's back. Then he opened the drawer, fishing the roll of tape out of it. He used his teeth to tear off a piece. He wound this around Carlisle's wrists first, then tore off a second piece and did the same. Sure now that Carlisle wouldn't be able to slip free, Jasper jammed the gun into the side of his jeans and taped more vigorously, moving quickly to Carlisle's feet.

This done, he tore off a final piece of tape, and moved forward to put it over Carlisle's mouth. Carlisle's face was mashed into the pillow, his breathing laboured. A single drop of blood had run away from the messy wound and clung to one of his eyebrows. Without intending to, Jasper reached out and flicked it away.

'I'm sorry that I can't stitch you up,' he said. The words jostled out of his mouth uncertainly.

'You need to get out of here,' was Carlisle's only reply, before Jasper smoothed the tape down over his mouth. Carlisle's eyes flickered shut for a moment, but Jasper couldn't pay that any attention—nor the way it felt, touching his bare skin, or the electricity that fed along the seam of contact, or his scent—leather, cotton, home, comfort.

No, never that. Jasper had never responded to his emotions before, and he wasn't planning on starting now.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: Please review! :)**


	3. Chapter 3

3.

It was barely seven am, and already the heat was suffocating, like invisible hands were pressing down on the small, dusty hamlet of Dale. Jasper stood by the back door of Carlisle and Bella's small house, his back ramrod straight, checking that no shadows were about to fall across the threshold. He had the gun ready in his right hand, and his bag—which he'd found, stashed on a chair just off the basement stairway—over his left shoulder. The keys to Carlisle's car were in his pocket.

The house was empty. He'd checked the two bedrooms, the bathroom they shared, the living room with its wood-panelled walls, and the kitchen with the small table shoved into one of its corners. Besides the hum of the refrigerator, there were no other sounds but the wind; besides the billowing curtains, no other movement.

Jasper felt calm, almost meditative. To his mind, the uncertainty was past. He'd gotten free, and now the last thing he needed—a getaway car—was glinting dully just beyond the short flight of steps that led into what he assumed was the backyard. There were no gates or fences. A little distance away, Jasper could see the cluster of building's he'd come to the previous day. According to Carlisle, the woman—Bella—was in the workshop. She wouldn't see him until he roared on past. She could try to catch him, but Jasper had out-driven much more harmful specimens than a teenage girl with a bitchy attitude.

He pushed the screen door out of his way, but instead of letting it clap shut, he eased it back, then looked around. There really wasn't much to look _at_. Scraps of weeds stuck up from the arid dirt. A few paces away from him was what looked like a disused fire pit, ringed neatly with stones. The road was just a gush of flattened earth that packed, in a bellying arc, to Dale, Arizona's pub, convenience store and workshop. There were no other cars, people, or even animals; not even a bird hung in the sky.

Jasper moved quickly. The car took without a hitch, and as he backed it up, the needle started rising, indicating that it was, indeed, gassed up. As soon as he was on the hard-packed dirt he let the Mercedes roar forward. It sprayed up dust when it flanked past the workshop, but as soon as it climbed on the highway the control eased out. Jasper glanced in his rearview mirror and just before he swung left, he saw a dapple of the girl appearing in the workshop's window. He couldn't see her expression but he bet it was surprised.

Relief snaked into his belly, and he pressed the gas down harder, the little nowhere town rapidly disappearing from his sight. It didn't take him very long to rip past his dusty, immobile car, but he never even thought about stopping. Like most things in his life, the car had been temporary. It could rust out here. He'd ditch the Merc as soon as he reached a town big enough, and go from there. Trains, planes, hitched rides. What did it matter?

He didn't see the wolf at first. Part of it was the heat, which streaked everything with disbelieving warbles; but more than that, at first he just didn't register that it was a _wolf_, because it was _huge_. It stood in the middle of the road, as tall as a horse and as black as the night. Jasper only had enough time to blink before he stomped on the brake. The Mercedes broke effortlessly into a skid, ramming off the road and spinning in a lazy circle until it came to a pounding halt against the edge of an old termite mound.

Jasper was aware of his head, which felt like it had been split asunder, the popping sounds coming from the engine, and a big, dark shadow that swallowed him whole. Struggling, he raised his head, then wished he hadn't. What greeted him, he couldn't explain—_it just didn't make sense_.

In the place of the gigantic black wolf a man stretched out to his full height, the elastic from his shorts snapping as he dragged them into place. He was tall—much taller even than Carlisle, whom Jasper had estimated at six two. His shoulders were broad, his skin a dark russet colour. His muscles rippled—he was stacked.

Next to him—flanking him, Jasper would have said, except it was _insane_—were two other wolves, not as big as the black wolf had been, but close. Their eyes were vivid yellow, the slits alive with intelligence. The grey-haired one's teeth were bared. Both stared at him with animosity.

'Who are you?' the man asked. He was frowning, obviously suspicious. His knuckles fluttered when Jasper didn't reply. 'Tell us who you are, stranger. This is the doctor's car,' he added, and his eyes narrowed.

'My name is Jasper Whitlock. Captain Jasper Whitlock,' Jasper added. His voice rung in his ears, erupting from him at the soothing, practised pitch he'd used on insurgents. 'I'm on my way-'

'Where's Carlisle? Get out of the car.' The man backed away a step, his eyes resting on each of the wolves before glaring at Jasper again.

Jasper snapped the seatbelt loose, then opened the door and climbed out, moving slowly, keeping his eyes on the man and the wolves next to him. As he moved, he felt his shirt unstick from the gun pressing into his sweaty back. He was reaching for it when something behind him caught the Native American's attention. He reacted without looking to see what it was. Frankly, could it be worse than _this_?

It happened in rapid succession, like bullets popping out of a gun. The spluttering, roaring engine of another vehicle—the Native American's eyes widening briefly when he saw the flash of gunfire—the roars of the wolves—the hot, heavy hide slamming into him—his shoulder cracking on the dirt—sharp, numbing pain...

Carlisle was there. From where he sprawled on the ground, Jasper could see his long strides taking him quickly to the Native American, who held his left shoulder with his right hand, a sash of red dribbling from the wound. His face was easing out of painful contortion, like the pain was disappearing—and a moment later he dropped his hand, Carlisle nodding over whatever decision had been made. The Native American sprung lightly to his feet; Carlisle straightened from his crouch, and that was when he looked at Jasper.

It was strange that, after everything that had happened, something as trivial as the look of disappointment in his kidnapper's face should bother Jasper so much. It clawed at his stomach, and for a moment he wanted nothing more than to roll himself into a ball and never have to face the light of day again. He would have run—the instinct was almost overwhelming—but the wolf towering over him leaked strands of spittle near his face, its teeth still exposed in a vicious snarl. It only clawed back, its giant paws leaving scratches in the sand, when Carlisle approached. Behind him, the Native American called, sharply, 'Paul!'

'Are you hurt?' Carlisle asked, his shadow flickering over Jasper. 'Where?' he added, almost immediately, though Jasper hadn't replied, and hadn't been planning on doing so.

'Is it your arm?' Carlisle inquired, after a moment of appraising silence. Jasper ignored him, but he couldn't help but twitch when Carlisle sunk down next to him. Carlisle's fingers hesitated mid-air before completing their reach, easily finding the tender way Jasper was holding his shoulder.

'Is it dislocated? Jasper? Please, we won't harm you.' Carlisle said this last softly and urgently, like he needed Jasper to believe him. Jasper couldn't imagine why. He was completely powerless—the gun had smacked out of his hand when the wolf jumped him, and he was outnumbered. He could see Bella give them a resentful look, standing in the shadow of the second-largest beast, which was a mottled red-brown colour.

'Will you let me go?' Jasper asked. His voice was cold.

Carlisle's jaw set. 'No, I can't. It's-'

'Then kill me and get it over with. I'm tired.'

Carlisle surveyed him for a long moment, but Jasper ignored him, staring at a piece of dusty highway. The light out here was sharp and almost surreal in its intensity. It was a lot like the light in Iraq, Jasper realized suddenly. Perhaps that was why, the whole time he'd been driving through this stretch of state, it had felt like demon hounds were on his tail, like he couldn't move fast enough or get away; like he was running in water.

How many times during his tour had he thought he was about to die, then hadn't? It hadn't bothered him much, either way...not until Emmett. And then, _after_ Emmett...

'Kill me,' he said. It wasn't a whimper; he didn't beg. He had more self-respect than that. It came out quiet and flat, a statement, not a question.

'I can't do that, Jasper,' Carlisle replied.

'It's what you've been planning all along.' Jasper smirked. 'Just get it over with.'

Carlisle shook his head, the beginning of an objection flashing in his eyes.

'_Do it!_'

Carlisle cupped Jasper's face; the touch was so brief Jasper would have thought he'd imagined it, if it weren't for the faint flush in Carlisle's cheeks. 'No.'

And without further argument, he'd dropped his hand and straightened, speaking to the man Jasper had shot.

'We'll take him back with us, Sam,' Carlisle said. His voice didn't have the usual push of authority, but the way Sam responded it might as well have. Jasper recognized the deference. It was an attitude he'd often seen soldiers adopt toward other soldiers or superiors who'd saved their lives.

'Are you sure? He'd have less chance of escaping La Push.'

'He won't get away.'

'Moving him there now could endanger the whole plan,' Bella pointed out. She still stood next to the large, red-brownish wolf; the proximity didn't seem to bother her. Jasper articulated what he'd sensed all along—that these people and these wolves were working together; but that _couldn't_ be...

'If he got out again-' Sam began, but Carlisle interrupted, not unkindly.

'He won't. I'll make sure.'

The promise in his voice, and the possessiveness of it did strange things to Jasper's nervous system. His stomach fluttered; his groin prickled. He felt his breath push out in a hush, could taste Carlisle's leather/cotton smell on the wind...

Sam nodded, then said, flicking Jasper a wary look, 'There were new scents last night. Not ones we're familiar with, but definitely...the same.' His look grew pointed.

'Near town?' Carlisle's expression was one of worry.

'No, but all around the area. It seems they were tracking the others' trails.'

'They?' Bella repeated.

'It looks like there are four of them.'

'_Four?_'

'Yes, Bella,' Sam said, patiently.

'Is Charlie-?'

'We don't think so. They were tracking. We don't know why.'

The three of them were silent. The wolves—their shadows were huge, grotesque puppet shapes on the sand—pawed around nervously.

'We'll get in touch if something else happens,' Sam said, more business-like. He cast Jasper a look.

'Of course. So will we.' Carlisle had seen the look, and his voice had more of an edge to it. 'Bella, will you please bring me the cuffs?'

Bella nodded stiffly, then whirled around and tripped toward the busted-up Chevy Jasper had seen in the workshop the previous day. She returned shortly carrying a pair of handcuffs, so buffed they shone in the sunlight, and the roll of tape Jasper had recently used to tie Carlisle up with, but there was no hint of resentment on Carlisle's face. When he came near, though, Jasper looked away from him, heat pushing into his jaw. He didn't want to look into those eyes. He didn't want to think about what they saw, or what they were planning, or about how he felt about it.

He had the eeriest sense of deja vu. It was almost like the way he'd felt facing Emmett's solemn, blameless face across the aisles of military justice. It was the realization that the shadows Emmett's body had cast were not just monsters on a wall—they were there, deep in his eyes, deep in his confident voice and the promotion he'd offered Jasper up for. It was the realization that they were as real as Emmett was.

And this, this felt like losing all over again. The snap of handcuffs around his wrists could just as well have been the tight stretch of his uniform. The sun beating on his face could have been a hundred places in Iraq. The feeling was the same. He was trapped by something he couldn't move or fight against. Something so much bigger than his personal capacity to stop.

'Don't struggle,' Carlisle told him. He said it gently, like he was lulling a child to sleep. There was no threat inherent in the words, but Jasper knew that there was steel beneath the silk of Carlisle's voice.

And he didn't fight. He didn't struggle. Days, weeks, years, and all of them he'd spent in a jumped-up state of aggression. And now it was over, and there was nothing he could do about it.

Misery flared in his chest, but like everything else, Jasper shut it down.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: Jasper was discharged from the army when DADT was still in effect. If you want to get technical about it, it happened during the two-month gap after DADT was repealed, but still basically in effect.**

**Evil Emmett, me likey! :)**

**Please review!**


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